


Gunmen

by YoursTruly (Lyscey)



Series: Predators [2]
Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: Anal Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Firearm maintenance as foreplay, Gun cleaning, Guns, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Still not kidding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 04:52:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3195971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyscey/pseuds/YoursTruly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Numbers is startled out of his daydream by the sound of the slide on his Walther PPK-E.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gunmen

**Author's Note:**

> This idea would not leave my head today. These two are exhausting.  
> The guns I describe are my educated guesses based on what's visible in the deleted gas station robbery scene. I'm open to hearing other people's head canons, but this is mine.  
> As always, I hope you enjoy the fic and leave me a comment if you do!

Numbers drops heavily into the tiny armchair in the corner of their tiny motel room. He lets his head fall back and closes his eyes, the soft sounds of Wrench getting undressed calming him. Tiredness pulls on the muscles behind his eyes and it feels indescribably good to relax into this only-vaguely comfortable chair and finally not think.

The assignment had been challenging and didn’t go 100% to plan, which is always frustrating for the meticulous Numbers, but at least it had been better than that blood-bath last month.

When they had finally gotten back to Fargo from the Middle-Of-Fucking-Nowhere, South Dakota, Numbers had stormed into the office like a man possessed. Tearing open doors, storming through hallways, shouting down the rafters for that little intel  _shit_  who had been responsible for their briefing before the disastrous warehouse fire fight. By the time Wrench caught up to him he’d beaten the man bloody and had to be drug out of the room and locked in a bathroom stall to rage until he calmed down.

Numbers would never admit it, even to Wrench ( _especially_  to Wrench, who held the stall door shut and flipped him off over the top of it while he ranted), by he’s a little embarrassed about that reaction now. If Numbers was a different man, a better man, who knew how to solve problems with words, he could have acted more professionally; but Numbers is a hitman who’s first impulse is to punish, not teach, and he had thoroughly lost his shit.

No one had said anything to him afterward. Even Wrench had just looked at him with that stoney, resigned expression and stayed between Numbers and the rest of the world until they were debriefed and dismissed.

He’d fucked Wrench for the first time that night, back at his apartment. Once he’d gotten Wrench inside he wasted no time leading him to the bedroom, pulling him down into the middle of the large bed; on top of the duvet, bed side light glowing and making Wrench’s hair look even more ruddy. They’d lain there on their sides, Wrench curled in on himself and trembling while Numbers rubbed his shoulders firmly and opened him up with gentle fingers. Wrench was beautiful, blossoming for Numbers like a flower: moist, yielding, and blushing a charming shade of fuschia-pink. The sex was slow and filthy and absolutely hedonistic, and possibly the best of Numbers’ life. He didn’t ask if it was the best of Wrench’s. He didn’t want to know. Instead he asked if Wrench was alright. Wrench responded by stretching his whole body, star-fishing out until he took up Numbers’ whole bed, then pulling at Numbers until he settled half on top of Wrench’s body. They had slept that way for several hours, until their evaporating sweat made it unbearably cold.

Numbers is startled out of his daydream by the sound of the slide on his Walther PPK-E. He lifts his head deliberately slowly, just in case, and opens his eyes to find Wrench sitting, shirtless and bare-foot, on the end of one of the double beds, a towel laid out across it, methodically disassembling the three pistols they’d used tonight. Wrench’s strong fingers deftly unlock the mechanism and pull the slide off, exposing the barrel, then setting it down on the towel. Next he lifts the barrel out of the gun’s frame, careful not to let the loading spring pop loose, and places those right next to the slide. He repeats the process on it’s twin, and then moves on to his own huge Colt Python. Numbers smiles.

That gun is ridiculous. It’s heavy, it’s essentially unsilenceable, and the moon-clips Wrench has modified it to accept aren’t that big an improvement to reloading time. Numbers can’t understand why Wrench loves that gun so much. It must be an aesthetic thing. It definitely goes well with the whole strong, silent, Dirty Harry type-thing he’s got going on. Numbers watches as Wrench flicks his wrist, popping the cylinder out, then tips the gun up and shakes minutely so the clip holding the spent shells will fall out. He catches it in his other had and then drops it onto the towel with the rest. It’s such a  _Wrench_  thing to do, Numbers can’t help but grin and look on fondly.

Wrench opens the black leather case next to him and removes a cleaning rod, and old teeshirt, and two flask-sized plastic bottles labeled ‘CLEANER’ and ‘OIL’, respectively. He tears a long strip off the frayed edge of the shirt, then uses his always razor sharp folding pocket knife to cut that into squares. He stacks them neatly, drips cleaner on them until they’re soaked through, then peels a single one off the top and threads it through the eye of the rod. Holding the revolver awkwardly, fingers shoved through the space where the cylinder used to be, he swabs the inside of the barrel with the cloth scrap, stopping occasionally to bring the gun up to his face so he can look down the barrel and decide if it’s clean enough. He moves on to the cylinder itself, swabbing every chamber before placing it back on the spindle, spinning it with a swipe of his palm, and then jolting it back into place with a hard flick of his wrist.

It’s the smell of the gun oil that finally snaps him out of his weird voyeurism. Well, it’s the significant twitch of his fully hard cock against his zipper when he smells the gun oil that does it. Since when does this turn him on? He lets his legs fall further open, wiggles his hips trying to get the harsh pressure of the thin metal zipper on his slacks off his dick. He hopes Wrench won’t notice, but of course that’s foolish.

Wrench looks over at him, takes in Numbers posture, half lidded eyes, and dusky blush and knows. He smiles.  **What are you staring at?**

Numbers smiles back.  **What does it look like?**

 **It looks like you’re about to J-E-R-K-O-F-F.**  Wrench finger-spells it, then makes the crude gesture with a loose fist for good measure, wiggling his eyebrows.

That startles a bark of laughter out of Numbers.  **Thinking about it. Watching you; serious, focused, G-U-N-O-I-L dripping down your fingers. S-E-X-Y.**

Wrench puts the Python down on a clean section of towel, drops off the bed onto his knees, and shimmies his way over to Numbers. It should look ridiculous: a 6’4”, tanned, and toned man like Wrench shuffling across the carpet on his knees. It doesn’t. It’s sexy as hell and Numbers bites on his bottom lip and tries to tell Wrench so with his wide, brown eyes.

Once Wrench reaches Numbers he doesn’t waste any time; he just starts popping buttons. He opens Numbers’ coat and tucks the sides of it up and back, behind Numbers’ body. The buttons of Numbers’ shirt are next, and he takes it upon himself to pull the tails of it out of his slacks and start unbuttoning from the bottom while Wrench works at the top. Wrench pushes the shirt up behind Numbers’ back with his coat. He’s getting impatient by the time he gets to Numbers’ belt, jerking at it to get the stiff metal pin out of the hole and the black leather back through the buckle. The button and zipper are straining over Numbers erection so much they give easily and Wrench slides it all down to bunch at Numbers’ ankles, where he’s still wearing his shoes.

Numbers shouts in surprise as Wrench grabs the mess of slacks and boxers in one big hand and lifts both ankles up over his left shoulder, tugging Numbers further down in the chair at the same time. His ass is hanging off the edge of the seat, the seam of the cushion at the small of his back, and Wrench is grinning down at him like this is the best idea in the history of mankind. He at least has the decency to sign  **O-K**  and wait for Numbers eager nod before doing anything else.

Dry fingers brush the underside of Numbers’ cock, at least as much of it as Wrench can touch with his legs pushed up and together like this. They linger briefly to cup his balls tightly, then a calloused thumb is circling lightly over his hole. Numbers lets out a gust of breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He hears Wrench’s breathy chuckle above him and snaps his eyes open. They lock eyes and it’s so intense Numbers almost wishes he’d kept his closed. He makes a circular gesture with his open hand he hopes Wrench will interpret as ‘hurry up and do it already!’

Wrench presses a kiss to Numbers knee and caresses his flank for a moment. Numbers lets his eyes slide shut again and enjoys the touch, lets it relax and ground him. When Wrench’s hand leaves him he doesn’t think too much of it until gun oil fills his senses again. Not only is the smell everywhere suddenly, but he can feel the thin slickness of it sliding over his balls, down  his perineum, and between his cheeks. Before any can drip onto the carpet the rough pad of Wrench’s thumb is there again, pushing it back up to the entrance to Numbers’ body. He moans and arches his back, pressing his head into the back of the chair and his ass into Wrench’s touch in equal measure.  _Christ, that’s hot._

Wrench is meticulous about preparing Numbers for sex. He wants it to be good, wants Numbers to like it, which means (at 6’4”, 300 pounds, and  _proportional_ ) he has to be very careful if he wants to be sure this won’t hurt at all. He stretches Numbers open and finds his prostate like a pro. Numbers tries not to think about how he got so good at it and just be grateful. It’s not hard. When Wrench finally slides into him, aided by even more sweetly musky gun oil, they both groan with it.

It’s life changing, have Wrench inside him. Numbers knew it would be in the same moment he knew he wanted it all those months ago. He lets the pleasure drag him along for a long time; eyes closed, listening to the totally unselfconscious noises Wrench makes because he can’t hear them, focusing only on the sensations. As it goes on though, he can’t maintain the detachment. He opens his eyes and looks at Wrench, who’s pressing his sweaty forehead into the side of Numbers kneecap, a look on his face that suggests pleasure so exquisite it’s almost painful. It only takes a moment for him to sense Numbers watching him and open his eyes. They always have this moment when they’re fucking: they lock on to each other’s eyes and both know they won’t be able to look away again until they come.

Wrench turns his head to rest his temple against Numbers knee. Numbers starts to raise his hands, but knows there’s no way he could sign like this, so he hopes Wrench is still coherent enough to read his lips and says, as clearly as he can, “harder.”

The little gasping sound Wrench makes is gratifying, and he’d be more smug about it, but once Wrench complies and starts seriously hammering his prostate he forgets what that word means. It’s only a few minutes of this before Numbers comes, so hard and long his fingertips tingle. Wrench makes it three or four more solid thrusts before cries out as he finishes, dropping his chin down to his chest and panting like he just ran a marathon.

They stay like that for several long minutes before Wrench feels like he’s soft enough to pull away from Numbers. He wants to fall straight down into Numbers’ chest and rub his cheek into the soft hair there, breathe in the scent of Numbers’ skin and soap and come, but at the last second he remembers to let his partners legs down first. He sees Numbers’ hiss of pain, just a short scrunching of brows and baring of teeth to him, but he recognizes it. Wrench wraps his hands around Numbers waist and starts rhythmically digging his fingers into Numbers back. When Numbers blinks up at him again he brings a fist up to rub at his own chest and winces in sympathy:  **Sorry.**

Numbers shrugs and smiles.  **I’m getting too old for B-O-T-T-O-M-I-N-G.**  

Wrench chuckles again and shakes his head.  **Want me to carry you to the shower and wash your hair for you?**

Numbers rolls his eyes.  **I already fucked you. Can you be nice to me, please?**

Wrench laughs, a rare one from his throat; sound and everything. The intimacy of it is like a hot knife in Numbers’ chest. He pulls off Numbers’ shoes, socks, and the wad of his slacks before standing up, jeans clinging to his muscled thighs, and offering Numbers his hand.


End file.
